Cross Country 1951: From New England to
California, Pt I
Philip Spooner
Brother Bob called me long
distance from California on a blustery, rainy New England night in
October. “Hey”, he hollered into the phone, “Let’s get out here, I’ve
got a deal cooking”.
Brother Bob had written several times before, relating how this town
called Ridgecrest, this area wedged into the Northeast corner of Kern
County, was about to start developing into a prosperous area in the
midst of desolation and dry desert.
Locating this valley of sand and sage, known historically as Indian
Wells Valley, appeared on the map to be in a remote section of
California, bounded on the West by the High Sierras with the peak of
Mount Whitney barely visible. To the East, one traverses the Slate
Range before approaching the forsaken place knows Death Valley. To the
North, lava beds roll out of the blackened earth, formed from some not
so ancient volcano. And to the South, low rolling hills parade in
endless solemnity across the horizon.
Ridgecrest, formerly known in the local parlance as “Crumville”, was in
the throes of progress and change. The Naval Testing Facility, a
proving ground for weapons development was creating an insatiable
demand for workers and raw building materials. Materials as simple as
gravel, for which Bob had staked a mining claim, could well meet the
specific requirements demanded by the governmental development needs.
Such a deal, supplying some part of this sand and gravel was the basis
of brother Bob’s insistent and long distant collect call to sedate
Massachusetts to the youthful and growing California in this year of
1951.
With a shout that needed no transmission line to the West coast, I told
Bob that yes indeed, I was on my way. The immediate desire to start the
trip in the morning grasped my heart strings like an unbreakable vise.
“No sir! No trip to California, not without me and all three
kids.” Needless to say, Edwina splashed a good deal of cool water on my
immediate plan to gas up and head west after breakfast. I could feel
the crinkling of greenbacks slipping from my grasp, and I knew that
Bob’s message and offer would float away like bonfire smoke unless I
acted soon.
During that restless night, I knew that a couple hundred bucks would
see me to California, alone. If only I would go right away.
Later, in our own retreat in the front upstairs bedroom, I stood at the
open window looking toward the western horizon. The last quarter of a
pale moon appeared to me like a dipper with which I could shovel wealth
and success from the nebulous clouds of opportunity.
Edwina, good and practical as she is, at this point, grounded my
yearning with motioning hand, beckoned me to bed, “There’s plenty of
time tomorrow to discuss this business.”
The bright light of morning and a rapid search of finances convinced me
that it would be at least until July before I could skimp and save
enough to take all of us and comfortably make the trip
Leaving
Massachusetts (that is Nathan in the back seat).
There
were six of us that finally started out in the first week of July,
1951: Myself, Edwina, Pete, Nate, baby Joe as well as niece Judy, for
whom we had accepted responsibility as foster parents.
Our expedition
started with tearful waves from Mother and a non-committal Dad, brother
in law ‘Doc’ and wife ‘Cissy’. Advice and doubt was clearly expressed
by Edwina’s brother Eddie as to the practicability of forcing the worn
horses beneath the hood of our 1941 Dodge Dynaflow Automatic to move
what accounted to virtually all our worldly possessions on a somewhat
suspect two wheel trailer which had been remodeled by none other than
myself. In any case, that’s what we had and it would have to do the job.
Included among
these items were our faithful Maytag washer, Edwins’a Singer sewing
machine, one large trunk, one foot-locker, several suitcases, all kinds
of bedding, and household goods and utensils. As ballast for the entire
rig I had included several hundred pounds of barbells, dumbbells, and
the assorted rickrack which an enthusiastic weight lifter and body
builder scatters around the premises.
Creaking and
hesitating, we eased away from Mill Street, kids hanging from all
windows with well wishing neighbors calling good-by and hopes for a
safe journey.
Upon reaching the
main road and obtaining a speed of 35 mph, a violent yaw forced me to
slow down to a safer 20 mph. With cousins and uncles following as far
as Baldwinville, twelve miles from our home town of Winchendon,
Massachusetts and with final farewells, we set out on our own toward
the unlimited reaches of the glorious west.
As the town of
Orange drifted by, we were immediately faced with the timber
lined grades and uninhabited borders of the Daniel Shay Highway. Then
on to the rolling Berkshire Hills we soon found ourselves winding
laboriously into New York State.
Driving steadily
at 25 and then when bold, up to 30 mph, mile after mile rolled beneath
our ominously creaking trailer wheels. Then, without warning,
catastrophe!
A shattering
report, a lurch, a grinding scaling crash and we were ditched, forward
progress abruptly halted. The crown side wheel of the trailer gone flat
with the wheel itself, from the overbearing weight on the trailer, had
parted company at the hub. There it lay on the brown earth close to the
trailer.
Barely 26 miles
from home, wheel beyond repair with no spare. And yes, we were
disheartened, but the golden call of California would not abate and we
could barely wait to continue on.
Two miles up the
road, a friendly fellow who operated a lunch room, gas station
combination, offered to transport us to his garage to repair the whole
business. After a considerable time, phone calls and obtaining needed
repairs done, with exhausted abandon, laid blankets on the ground, we
all lay down for the night.
After a brief
conference in the morning with the mechanic, it was decided to pare
down the trailer from its overburdened load. Many items were sent back
to Winchendon by local truck and we ended up with about half the
original weight. By noon, we again took up the challenge of the open
road.
Many hours later,
in the black of the night, steering down the grades into Schenectady,
New York, our second tire gave out. The 300 dollars with which we had
started out now was rapidly dwindling into an increasingly thin packet
of bills and pocket change.
Days later, weary
and worn, we halted on demand of the female members for a hot bath.
This stop occurred in a dusty, heat-drenched town somewhere in the
northeast part of Oklahoma. Driving off the highway to stop at a
refreshing green park, the complaining, crying and throughly disgusted
crew stopped to eat while Edwina and Judy wandered up the brief main
street to a non descriptor motel where, for fifty cents each, they were
allowed to bathe, shower and change. Some time later, looking neater
and somewhat more optimistic, but by now again just as drenched with
sweat, the females permitted the journey to continue.
At a small town
50 miles east of Oklahoma City, with various noises coming from
beneath the floorboards of our jet black, four-door Dodge, I was forced
to find a storage for the trailer since the dreadful noise had
increased to formidable proportions. I would just have to come back for
it later once the family got settled. I could not take a chance of
further misfortune or ill turn of luck only half way to our goal.
Once in Oklahoma
City, we were forced to wire back home to Dad for enough money to see
us through the venture. Since the money would arrive the next day, and
after I asked, the Salvation Army graciously offered beds for the
night. We had been sleeping on the ground and in the car since leaving
home.
The next day,
with our appearance not unlike that of California bound dust bowl
refugees of the 1930’s, we finally returned to the highway.
Highway 66, took
us west on the hot, steamy roadway, preheated through northern Texas
and the panhandle until finally into New Mexico with slightly cooler
higher altitudes. Then we dropped back down into the raging furnace of
the dry Arizona heat and continued toward out goal. Yet now we actually
began to acquire a brightness to our speech, a small sparkle of
anticipation in our eyes as the conversation became more speculative as
to what lay in store for us at trip’s end.
